Detour Paris: Complete Series (Detour Paris Series Book 4)

by Dancer, Jack

  You're Breaking My Heart you’re tearing it apart so fuck you is playing through my head.

  You bitch. What the hell're you doing? Goddammit, don't you know I love you? I'm crazy about you Christ's sake!

  I fall back to the floor clutching myself and start rolling over the carpet (God this feels good) and a whole new bunch of eruptions start hiccuping through me, and I'm bawling like a baby again. God it hurts. I can't stand this. If this is love, it's really messed up, I blubber into the carpet.

  I shoot up and sit and wipe my eyes, my face. I can't stop thinking about her, how much I must really love her. At least now, I know.

  Then the thought of the lottery ticket comes to mind.

  That fucking lottery ticket's to blame. All that money, screw the money. I don't give a damn about the money. I'll give up the money if I can get her back. The money doesn't mean shit.

  Uh, am I sure about that?

  I mean, €120 million? Easier said than done. Would Monica want me giving up that kind of money? Would she do it if the tables were turned? Obviously not, she's walked out and doesn't even know about the money. Think she would've passed on ole Lloyd had she known? Probably. I mean, let's be real. For that kind of money, people would do anything. Besides, you never know what you'd do until you're there, with all the information, right?

  Wait a minute. Maybe I can use the money to buy off ole Lloyd. Better yet, use it to kill ole Lloyd. That'd do it. Kill the fucker. Oh, God, I hope she decides there's no love for Lloyd.

  I gotta go to sleep. Maybe this'll all be over with when I wake up. How could this have happened? I hate this. How can I sleep? My mind's driving me nuts. Don't think about it. Just forget about it. Put it outta your mind.

  Yeah? And just how in hell am I supposed to do that?

  I can't sleep. My eyes are wide open, and here it is three o'clock in the morning. If only I could relax and get my mind off this. I've gotta go to Perpignan in a few hours. If I could just go to sleep and get through Perpignan without thinking about all this; God, please let me sleep.

  I try, and I try, and I read, and I try again, read again, and try again. Finally, I decide to check my email and surprise, surprise, there's an email from Ebba.

  Dear Tucker darling,

  This is the most difficult thing I've ever had to do, and I want you to know I would never ask this of you, except it means my life. Not just my life but Terry's too.

  By now, you must know Terry and I are in dire straits. We had only gone to dinner with a friend when we found ourselves unable to return, and we may never be able to return unless I can appeal to your kindness and generosity to free us. Tucker, you are the only one who can.

  Our hosts are requiring a payment of one million euros for each of us to gain our freedom, two million euros total.

  These are very dangerous and desperate people, Tucker. Terry and I are both frightened to death. They say if they do not receive payment by noontime tomorrow at the Gaudi House in Park Güell, we will never see you or anyone else again. They will kill us, Tucker. Make no mistake about it, they will.

  Please darling, help us. You're the only man who can. And remember, I love you.

  Your Princess,

  Ebba

  Is she nuts? Two million dollars? This has got to be a joke.

  I write her back.

  What's with these bloody women? Are they all fuck'n crazy or is it me? Am I putting out some weird pheromone that's attracting these nut cases?

  I take a shower, and while I'm practically scrubbing my skin raw, the alarm goes off. Time to go to Perpignan.

  Well, that was the worst night of my life. Thank you, Jesus.

  ***

  The Raven.

  The Crazy Serbian Butcher's Dance was playing. It was the Raven's favorite polka when she was working in the tiled room. It was fitting and made play out of the work.

  She ran the scalpel's edge along Elena's lower jaw line starting at the right temporomandibular joint, looping around her chin and back to complete a full circular incision. At the back of Elena's neck, intersecting with the first incision, she began a second, this time traveling north until she reached the crown of her head.

  Boundaries now defined; the Raven guides the scalpel again into the incision, only this time turning the blade flat-wise cutting a flap of skin clear around Elena's neck into a sort of makeshift collar. At the ears, she lifts the collar and slips the blade underneath and slices each from their hold then drops the scalpel onto the instrument table and stretches the kinks out of her back. She's in her element. It's what she trained for, and it's within these tiled walls where she is truly happy.

  The music digs into her, and she let's go with a couple of kicks.

  Tap-dancing her way back over to the girl, she leans her four-foot-seven frame into her and with her stubby arms, embraces her like a loved one. That's how it would appear except her hands take hold of the collar of flesh behind, and on the count of three and with a single, long heave-ho, she pulls the collar up and back over the girl's head and down to the bridge of her nose, peeling her like a blood orange. And a wash of crimson anoints the creature unveiled.

  With a flip of her wrist, surgical scissors materialize like a switchblade, and she begins slashing before her, air-conducting the frenetic tempo of the Crazy Serbian Butcher's Dance. But, when the adrenaline wanes so does her attention, and she turns back to the creature in the chair patiently waiting.

  "I'm sorry dear,” she says to the hangdog form, "I haven't forgotten you. Let's get this facelift, lifted.”

  With the flamboyance of a maestro, she brings her razor-edged baton to the girl's nose, snipping away the cartilage and gristle anchoring her face. Satisfied, she twirls her weapon like a gunfighter and drops it onto the instrument table next to the blood-edged scalpel then turns back to Elena.

  She takes the girl's sagging scalp in both hands and with one last downward pull, unmasks her completely. Everything comes - ears, nose, and lips, even eyelids, leaving her holding an empty sack, inside out. She reaches into the bag and pulls the mask right side out. With stubby fingers gloved in blood-smeared rubber clutching the girl's Auburn hair, the Raven presents the head of a vanquished foe like a prize on an outstretched arm, only it's the drooping, uninhabited sack of poor Elena's face and an extraordinary photo op for Mad Magazine, the clinical edition.

  The Crazy Serbian Butcher's Dance continues on with its relentless pounding, playing the Raven like a marionette. She breaks into another jig. She's in a partying mood dancing over to the room's one washbasin attached to the far subway-tiled wall where she cleans the smooth, supple mask of youth. It's easy. As she coats the inside with globs of petroleum jelly she delights in the thought of all the years unused.

  Voilà, the mask, is ready to slip back on and she turns back to the creature propped in the chair sweating blood and says, "Now we see the princess you really are."

  It was a science project gone horribly wrong. Two eyeballs bulging in surprise over a bloody maw hanging stupidly slack below. Any expression had fled, but the dentals, now the dentals were flawless.

  thirty-seven

  07:00 Hours, Friday, 5 September.

  Driving to Perpignan.

  Leaving the hotel my cell phone dings with a text message from Dick, that the two Libica minions he'd put into the entertainment business turn out to be Libica's sons. And from the two photos attached to the text message; they don't appear to be happy campers either. I can't believe what I seeing. Their faces painted with heavy layers of blush, eye makeup, and lipstick smeared into hideous smiles. Graffiti I didn’t understand scrawled across their foreheads with what . . . lipstick? And that was the least of it.

  In one photo, one's buggering the other. In the other photo, it's fellatio. And from the expressions on their faces, they weren't doing this by choice. I'm stunned and sickened by what I see. I actually felt sorry for these kids. These were worse than the Bagdad flyers. I can't believe Dick would go to such lengths. There
's obviously a seriously sadistic side to the man. Guess I should be glad he's working for me and not against me.

  His text message said he sent the photos to their mother too. God help us. He included her cell phone number and her home address in Perpignan, F.Y.I., just in case I'd like to follow up with a message of my own. Then, there was the little p.s. that followed:

  Their mother,

  Doctor Drusilla Libica,

  is the Raven.

  Holy shit! The Raven? The woman who heads up the Terra something-or-other? Just what we were beginning to suspect. Are you kidding me? We're dead! This, the woman with the guerrillas, and we've kidnapped her sons and made 'em the headliners at the friggin’ Bagdad! Is this guy completely mad?

  I give him a call and after patiently listening to my hysterics, he tells me we couldn't be in a better position. The boys have given up so much information on their mother he could fry her in a matter of minutes if he wanted to. The mere fact he knows her identity would be enough to have the French and Spanish governments down on her with Blackhawk helicopters.

  Now I know Dick's as crazy as a shit house rat. He was like a kid who'd just found the biggest treasure chest ever and all the ideas of what to do with it were eating him up like a bag of fleas. This was all making me nervous as hell because if anyone ended up being the target of her retribution, it'll be Monica and me. We're the ones those two boys were looking for, before Dick press-ganged them into his Bagdad harem.

  I reminded him he was working for me, and he owed it to me not to do anything to them or anything more to provoke Libica until Monica, and I were safely out of the picture. After that, I didn't care what he did to them. Thankfully, he agreed.

  I asked him why the boys were in Barcelona looking for Monica and me. They told him we were involved in a murder on the train to Perpignan, that a man had a heart attack in our compartment and their mother, a doctor, had been helping the man and had accompanied the paramedics from the train to the Perpignan hospital where he died. An autopsy was performed, and it was the medical examiner's opinion the man had been murdered. They said you and Señora Reyes were the murderers, and they were in Barcelona looking for you to turn you into the police.

  That was a damn lie I told him. The man was already dead when he fell into our train compartment. And Monica, and I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I told him there were half-dozen or so people who witnessed the whole thing - how the guy came crashing through our door and fell on Monica and how the Doctor Libica rushed in to help and how she took over the situation and sent us to her compartment to keep us out of it; that she and her sons were with the police and the paramedics when the body was removed from the train.

  "Then why were they seeking you and Señora Reyes? I do not understand," says Dick.

  "I don't know. I can only speculate that it was they who murdered this Paulo Marti, and they're now trying to pin it on Monica and me. That's exactly why I'm driving to Perpignan this morning to attend Paulo's funeral. I'm hoping to get some answers," I say.

  I still didn't tell him about the lottery ticket, and he didn't ask either, so I can only assume the boys didn't tell him, or they don't know about the lottery ticket. If they did know about it, I can't imagine why they haven't told Dick, especially, since they've gone so far as to out their terrorist mother to him. Maybe they don't know? But then, why else would they be looking for Monica and me, if not for the lottery ticket? It doesn't make sense. The whole murder scenario sounds like bullshit, and now, knowing their mother is a big time crime lord or lady? You know its bullshit. Thing is, would she not've told her sons about the lottery ticket? Why?

  There's only one possible answer.

  If you had a lottery ticket worth a hundred twenty million euros would you trust someone else to hold it for you? Yeah, here hold this ticket for me okay? It’s only worth a hundred twenty million euros and anyone can take it down to the ticket office and collect the money. Right.

  I'm hoping to get some answers with this drive to Perpignan. Then again, now that the Raven probably thinks I'm the one who's fucked her sons over, I might be driving into one big trap. Man is she going to be pissed when she sees those photos. This could turn out to be a funeral for two. Move over Paulo.

  Dick pressed me to get one thing if I did run across Libica, her photo. No one has a photo of the Raven. I said I'd try. I didn't want to tell him I already have photos. Not yet.

  ***

  The Raven.

  Sophia, Elena's best friend bound in the opposing chair has now witnessed her friend being skinned like a rabbit before her very eyes. It was a horror show. And if that wasn't enough, add to this spectacle a midget, burka-ed in blood-spattered surgeon's garb and mask, performing the excoriation while bopping to the steroid-laced Crazy Serbian Butcher's Dance and not a horror movie, in the history of horror movies, could match this insanity in a million years on LSD.

  Does this midget monster, this dwarf of the dark side, not possess even the slightest shred of mercy? Is God really that dead?

  But, wouldn't it count for mercy that before the Raven's blade violated the smooth and supple skin of youth, the girls were injected with a neuromuscular blocking agent so the only real pain suffered was watching the other's flaying?

  Well, perhaps.

  But, did the girls see it that way, mercy that is? Not likely, they were too distracted to consider the matter.

  As heart-rate monitors bleep off the charts like metronomes from hell, synchronized with the tempo of the music, the Raven tap-dances, her way over to the table and plops the mask - that was Elena's face only a moment ago - down like an old hat.

  Now, dermatome in hand, she turns to Sofia and Elena gets to watch her friend's naturally blonde tresses and prom queen face, peel off like a Brazilian wax job.

  She's a trained professional, the Raven, and follows strictly, the identical procedure with Sofia as she employed with Elena and in short order there are two bloody skulls with lidless eyeballs gazing at each other in sad resignation. Pink tears wash across what had once been Sofia's sky-blue irises - the same ones that drew boys like rare-earth magnets - now fading to the color of oblivion as all hope abandons the young girl.

  The amphetamine-driven Crazy Serbian Butcher's Dance presses on and once again the Raven trips the light fantastic over to the washbasin to clean and lube yet another empty sack.

  Then, one skin sack at a time, she refits each girl with a clean face. Only she mistakenly reverses them so now Elena is Sofia and Sofia Elena.

  When she notices her error and the hilarity of it, she kicks up a couple of Polka back steps and admires the cleverness of her handiwork. The subtle flickers of surprise she was hoping to see when each girl’s eyes fell upon the other did not go unnoticed. They knew they were still alive. They only wish they weren't; she thought.

  How they ended up in this place was unfathomable. They'd simply gone out on the town two nights ago expecting to entice a couple of boys back to their hotel rooms and instead found themselves living a nightmare even hell itself would be hard-pressed to conjure up.

  And the Raven drank in their terror like a fine wine and let go with another kick.

  "I think we've moved identity theft to another level, girls. Take a look for yourselves,” she says rolling over a double-sided standing mirror between them, so they could see for themselves, their new selves.

  When her cell phone vibrated, interrupting her pleasure feasting on the moment, she picks it from the pocket of her scrubs anyway. A text message arrived; photos attached.

  "Primp all you want girls, I need to take this,” she says as if addressing her own daughters.

  ***

  By seven, o'clock I'm driving north on the AP-7 in the Volkswagen Golf I'd reserved the day before. Ninety miles later, I turn onto the A-9 and another fifteen miles; I'm entering Perpignan, France. The street signs are in both French and Catalan, not surprising since half the population speaks Catalan. By nine forty-five, I'm parking at the Cathedral Ba
silica of Saint John the Baptist, the Catalan church where Paulo's funeral is to take place.

  The nave of the church is surprisingly crowded. He must have been well known and loved by many; I thought.

  It's an open casket funeral, and I move close enough to the front to see the body lying in the mahogany box is indeed the man who had crashed through our train compartment door and fell across my naked Monica scaring the hell out of her.

  I move to the back of the church and survey the crowd. When the services conclude, the casket's carried outside to an adjoining cemetery for burial. Family members were pretty obvious - up front, close, and in tears, but there were many others too.

  The wife stands in black, a veil covering her face, her hand dabbing a white handkerchief up underneath. Two young girls, Paulo’s children, maybe five and eight years old, stand next to her, one holding her hand and the younger holding her sister’s. I can’t help but feel for this little family and vow again to see they’re well provided for from the lottery funds Paulo most likely lost his life over.

  I try to listen in on conversations, but it does little good considering I don't speak French, Spanish, or Catalan. So, exactly what the hell am I doing here anyway? Monica should be the one here, listening and translating, but no; she's probably sleeping in with Lloyd. The bitch.

  I did notice a group of young men though, about Paulo's age, that seemed to be having a difficult time keeping a heated discussion down and quiet. They seemed upset. One of them, I thought I recognized as one of the gawkers from the train. The one taking photos. The one I chased off. He was wearing wraparound sunglasses so it was hard to tell. He apparently didn't notice me though. If he had, it must not have dawned on him that I was the old naked fucker he'd photographed. Maybe it's the clothes. I'm wearing sunglasses too and keep my head turned away but remain within hearing distance of the group, what little good that did.